


apologies to future mes and yous

by s0dafucker



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22659133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: i couldn't get the boy to kill me but i wore his jacket for the longest timewhich is to say your wrist under his tongue, your pulse under his mouth, his teeth in the dark, his eyes in the dark,but where there are prophecies, they will cease where there are tongues
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	apologies to future mes and yous

your foot brushes up your guitar in the dark, sets the strings echoing some false melody, and you stand up on clumsy legs, slowly-focusing eyes, like nightvision, like opposums in the woods, like a deer in headlights, you feel like a deer in headlights. caught. dazed. a hand gropes at the back of your shirt- gerard, with long ghostly fingers and chipped-off nail polish that was black once, cool once, giving way to nicotine stains and bleeding cuticles. he holds the hem of your shirt and he’s cold but you let him, he’s cold but you like it, the press of his knuckles to your lower back in that feverish hot-cold that sets your skin tingling like the second drag of a morning cigarette. he tugs once, twice, but you already slung your legs off the bed and that’s enough commitment for you, so you whisper that you’re going out and he whines, in the dark, sound hitting the walls and dampening like an e string, like echolocation. your cigarettes are in your pocket already. god is merciful.

someone left the back porch unlocked and so you’re slipping out, him in his sock-shuffling eerie grace and you with one hand in your hoodie pocket, holding your pack in a sweaty half-grip. the ashtray’s on the table next to the bug-zapper and you watch a mosquito die and you look at gerard but he’s looking at you already, glowing faintly, grinning with half his razor-mouth. he holds two fingers out like a gun, clicks ‘em like scissors, and you slide a smoke into the space between his marble knuckles. there’s a lighter in the pack- it isn’t your lighter, it’s mikey’s green, and these are menthols, so you stole his smokes- remember to apologize, later, or he’ll bitch for days. you light one and it makes you gag, a little, the dry-mouth feeling of the first half-inhale, the monkey’s paw wish of smoking, and gerard clicks his tongue at you from the other chair.

you lean over to light his cigarette and his eyes are yellow-orange-red, hellfire, and you think about pressing the still-hot lighter metal into your forearm. just for a second. so it can sit amidst your tattoos, a nice little brand to match the scars underneath your scorpion. it’s like meditating, sitting and smoking and thinking about your own drunkenness in the abstract, thinking about yourself in the third person- second person? this is second person, dipshit. you’re thinking about yourself. you’re frank and you’re tipping your head back to the stars and blowing smoke at god. how very fucking poetic of you. 

‘did i sleep?’ you ask the sky and the lawn and gerard, somewhere to the left of you- 

‘yeah,’ he says, voice sleep-scratchy though it shouldn’t be; ‘for a couple hours.’

‘what time is it,’ you say, to him but mostly to yourself, because god knows you haven’t seen a clock or your phone in a while. it’s still dark. blue-black. blue black yellow white with the coals of your cigarettes and the ghoulish glow of gerard’s skin in the shitty bug-zapper, the line of his jaw and his nose and his sunken eyes. there’s a croquet set out on the lawn, beaten and bruised and casting awful shadows down the green-blue, black-blue, neverending dark. maybe you should go back inside. 

you look at the ashtray and there’s ghosts living in it, in the black lipstick smudges on a white pall mall gerard’s grandma gave him, the crooked halfer no one ever smokes ‘cause ray told you to save it for the next time he came over and he never remembered. the chips in the sides from dropping it on the way to the trashcan and stinking up the kitchen. gerard looks at you and you’re warm. gerard looks at you and you want to drop your smoke and kiss him but you’re not gonna waste mikey’s money. gerard looks at you and you look back.

you meet him in the bedroom, which is to say you walked up behind him, with the remnants of his footsteps still dusty on the floor, with his rabbit-tracks in the snow guiding your way, with his leg in the trap bleeding all over the black sheets which is to say your wrist under his tongue, your pulse under his mouth, his teeth in the dark, his eyes in the dark, glow of the moon through the window blind-slats vivisecting his face into prison-stripes. you don’t ask him to and he doesn’t ask permission but walking up the stairs with your feet in his footsteps, amigara-fault-style, you knew what you were attending, this is your hole it was made for you. masquerade ball invitation made out to you in a scarlet script, dripping down your wrist as he kisses it, butterfly-soft, with his teeth like knives on your skin so sensitive the air makes you flinch. like touching a hot stove and coming back again, just to make sure, your body jumping away like an electric-chair shock and you moving right back, touch your finger to that unwrapped wire one more time. his fangs ghost over your pulse point and you fight to stay still because you  _ like it,  _ is the thing. you fucking love it. you watch him lower his mouth to bite and you can’t look away, you remember your piercer begging you to keep your eyes on the wall instead of on the needle, you look at gerard’s eyes white-yellow in the dark and you watch him bite down and you press your legs together because distantly, somewhere, you’re pretty horny for him sucking your blood out. 

you run your tongue over your lips, your teeth, and it tastes like vodka and ash, flat soda and menthol. his tongue is pushing your veins around and it’s kind of a sick feeling but you let it happen anyway, toss your head back to the pillows so it spins like a county fair ride, makes your stomach flip like a firing squad. just do it. (how fucking easy it must be, to donate your body to science, like you donate your body to the beautiful horrible creature on the bed beside you drinking your blood like a particularly good smoothie. his hair is falling in his face and over your arm and you want to say i love you and you want to whisper something about a poem you read once, about beautiful boys and sins, but you can’t find the room in your throat and so you stare up at the ceiling and you bleed earnestly into his mouth.)

**Author's Note:**

> did i write this drunk? mayhaps  
> am i still drunk?? absoluely it is a monday night i have a paper due tomorrow i cant find my vape life is good
> 
> no one cares but hte poem franks thinking of is you are jeff by richard siken n the line in the description is also siken i just cant remember which poem  
> also famous prophets by csh


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